


Wordsmith

by ashilrak



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, Canon Era, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-04
Updated: 2016-12-04
Packaged: 2018-09-06 12:37:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8751682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashilrak/pseuds/ashilrak
Summary: "His mother had always warned him to be wary of his own magic.Maybe he should have listened."





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pennylehane](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pennylehane/gifts).



> The prompt was a magic au set in the political chunk of Hamilton, I hope I delivered :-)

Alexander Hamilton was a wordsmith in the most literal sense. He had the ability to weave power into the written and spoken word, and it was an ability that was met with equal amounts of distrust and respect.

The expectation was that such abilities weren’t to be flaunted, and used in only the most dire of situations. It wasn’t polite to hold such sway over others, and it wasn’t to be done for the simple purposes of entertainment.

The common understanding was that those gifted with magic held complete control over their abilities. This understanding was incorrect. Certain mages had mastered their arts, but they were few and far between. Magic was a human quality, and in line with human nature, it was illogical and the rhythm of it rose and fell for no discernible reason.

The more magic flowing through one’s veins meant their emotions were higher and closer to the surface. One needed to be in touch with the world around them to influence it in any way, and that included being more in touch with what the body and mind was feeling.

Alexander Hamilton had a surplus of magic flowing through him - it was evident in his constant frenzy of thought and motion. The reason Alexander Hamilton couldn’t sit still was because the energy would be buzzing in his finger tips and in between his ears, pushing to be let out.

But Alexander Hamilton was a gentlemen and he tried his best to follow the etiquette expected of him - tried to push down the energy like he did his hunger when he spent hours hunched over a writing desk by the light of a single candle.

Eliza tried to understand what it was like, but she never could. Angelica got the closest. She, like her sisters, was a witch. Witches were those who could weave spells with only a few words and a wave of their hand. Their skills were sought after in cases of emotional turmoil and ill health - every child grew up with stories of witches who grant miracles.

Angelica was the most powerful witch Alexander had ever had the pleasure of meeting, her power radiated from her. In the days of old she would have been brought before the ruler, and granted her own title for the power she would bring to the nobility. This was a different time, and as a lady of standing, using her gifts would seem uncouth.

Eliza had no problem following that etiquette, or at least she appeared to not have an issue with it. Upon their initial meeting, Alexander hadn’t realized Eliza had any talents of note. It wasn’t due to a lack of power, but rather the constant flow she pushed outward.

Her gift was with music. She could influence emotions with a song and improve a sad day with a dance. Alexander had met her at a ball, and her glow had been more literal than figurative. Parts of him would wonder how much of his affection for her was his own, and how much was of her making. He would always push those thoughts away, for fear of considering just how much his own words had influenced her.

He wasn’t sure he would have been granted her hand were it not for the extra boost he had put into his speech to her father.

Alexander didn’t let himself dwell on such things.

The years went by, and their children were born - each as beautiful as the last, and brighter than the sun.

He spent hours working for Washington and doing his part in laying out a strong foundation for the future of their young country.

Alexander couldn’t afford to step away from his work, but Angelica and Eliza still tried. It was the hardest thing he had done, saying no to them - he had to push every once of his own magic into his refusal to be able to resist the combined charms of the Schuyler sisters.

There was nothing in him left to say no to Maria Reynolds.

He wasn’t sure what her magic could be described as, but it hummed under her skin and kept pulling him in. Her eyes and voice drowned everything else out, and got rid of any urge he might have had to summon his own magic to the surface of his skin. She quieted everything that was always yelling from inside of him - the calm eye of a storm, where everything seemed safe and peaceful.

If Eliza was there, she would have grabbed his wrist and whispered the stories her mother had told her of the sirens who walked around disguised as the common woman and man.

Alexander was powerless against Maria, and in his mind she didn’t exist in the realm of the rest of his life. The shock that came over him the day Thomas Jefferson approached him in his office, James Madison and Aaron Burr at his sides, was worse than what one might experience when forced into icy water to fight a fever.

When they left him that day his thoughts started to run together and the energy started to buzz within him once more - a feeling he had forgotten while under Maria’s thrall. It was familiar, and it propelled him to move forward into his own abyss.

He put dipped his quill into ink and let his magic flow. Alexander wasn’t sure he had control over what was happening as he wrote page after page. His heart was filled with emotions - his mind flashing with images of Maria spread out beneath him smiling, imaginings of possible futures once Eliza read what he was pouring his soul into.

None of them worked in his favor, but at least he could continue to be known as an honest man. It wasn’t a secret he held magic within him, and that would only make people more inclined to believe the rumors. If the slander about him was believed, it wouldn’t just harm him - it would affect anyone who had ever felt power thrumming in their veins.

People would call his actions selfish, but he would always recognize it as the self-sacrificing act it was.

Alexander Hamilton slept a very long time that night, his arms wrapped around his wife’s sleeping form for what could be the last time. The rise and fall of her chest was bittersweet - a reminder of everything he held dear, and a countdown to when he’d lose it all.

Breakfast was relaxed, filled with Eliza humming, the children laughing, and Alexander waiting for the needle to drop.

He was already in his office by the time the news hit. He knew he moment it did. He could here Eliza send the children outside, and then heard a knock at his door.

She didn’t wait for him to answer, and when she walked in Alexander was struck by the silence. Even when Eliza wasn’t singing or talking, there always seemed to be a rhythm coming from within. It was something that Alexander loved - it was the beat that accompanied the melody of his writing unlike anything he could have dreamed up on his own.

And it was gone.

The thing about magic was that it's a fickle mistress, and intention and will must be clear or they are likely to be misconstrued. While Alexander might have preferred for his words to be subtle and easily forgotten, leaving readers with the overall impression of his trustworthiness, only some of that translated. There wasn’t a single person who didn’t believe what he wrote, but it was fresh in their minds whenever they laid eyes on him or heard his name.

The reality of the situation didn’t sink in for Alexander until two weeks later, when George Washington called him into his office, sat him down, and pressed a whiskey into his hand.

“Son, you didn’t write that, did you?”

Alexander hadn’t known what to say, as he could no longer trust his words to do as he wished, and so he said nothing.

The General was a master mage, not able to craft spells, but having a near perfect control over the power already found in nature. He didn’t pull the energy from within himself, but from the world around him. He was as calm as a still lake, and as imposing as a mountain. He remained so even when he had forests around him bending to his will, and that was what made him terrifying.

Alexander felt himself sit straighter and more still than he ever could on his own, and knew it was not his own doing. He listened as Washington said, “I know your words. I’ve harnessed your words. I sensed that power in you from the beginning. What makes you so special, Hamilton, isn’t your magical talents. They are remarkable, but wordsmiths aren’t as rare as they’ll have you think. Most men have some trace of the talent; you’re bursting with it. But what’s unique about you is that your words are just as stirring when there is no magic forced into the ink or your voice.”

Alexander nodded, accepting the praise and recognizing it as the truth.

Washington continued, “But your words are different when infused. And I don’t mean in the effect they have, but in the words themselves. Your sentences and structure differ the more energy you force into it - the physical versus mental manifestations of your abilities.”

Alexander nodded again, confused. He couldn’t have said a word if he wished, for the General still had hold over him.

“And you didn’t write those words. They were written by your hand, but not by you.”

He found himself able to speak, “I don’t know sir. I barely remember writing it”

“I see.”

Alexander left his office that day and returned a home full of overbearing silence. This was his life now; afraid to write for lack of faith in himself, and the comfort he had once found in his family taken away by his own hand.

His mother had always warned him to be wary of his own magic.

Maybe he should have listened.


End file.
